9 National Narratives of Suffering and Victimhood Methods and Ethics of Telling the Past as Personal Political History Omer BartOv his chapter presents some preliminary thoughts on the possibility of telling the story of Israel-Palestine as a personal political history. T By this I mean not only, but certainly also, my own coming to terms with my identity as a Jewish Israeli. More importantly, what I have in mind is the story of my generation of Israeli citizens, born between the late 1940s and the early 1960s, that is, the first generation of citizens of a newly created state. What interests me is this generation’s relationship to the land, and it is in this sense that I speak of a personal political history and not of party-based political affiliation. What greatly complicates this story is the fact that while the new Jewish Israeli citizens were expected to normalize the state’s existence by the very fact that they were born in it and thus, in a purely biological sense, became indigenous to it, the new Arab Israeli citizens of the same state, who had mostly been indigenous to the land for generations, were denormalized by becoming an ethnic minority on their own land with—often with only limited civil rights. Since this generation is more or less the same age as the state itself, its personal story is in a certain sense the personal story of the state: a state whose most important personal characteristic is its alleged ability to “normalize Jewish existence” and by the same token its capacity to “denormalize” the native Arab population that remained on the land after the mass expulsion of the Palestin- ian majority in 1948. Ultimately, then, what intrigues me is not the conventional yet highly con- tentious and competing political narratives but the manner in which Israeli Jews and Arabs born into the state have understood, articulated, and felt their link to their homeland—homeland in the simple sense of the land in which they bash18296_book.indb 187 03/07/18 5:44 PM 188 9 the hOlOcaust and the nakBa were born as the first citizens of a newly born state. This question, although it is clearly at the heart of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, has never been addressed in this manner. Indeed the idea of writing a collective subjective history, par- ticularly one that is split into at least two main personas, is generally uncom- mon, not least because it requires listening to the protagonists of the period yet avoiding an anecdotal oral history, that is, the narration of a generation’s link to a place through its members’ personal tales. In other words, this is a major challenge, yet one that is, to my mind, well worth taking on, precisely because at its core is neither contention nor argumentation but the need for empathetic understanding, without which history is nothing more than “one damn thing after another,” a “dogma” about reconstructing the past against which as the great historian Arnold Toynbee famously warned in 1957.1 I came to Israel-Palestine from Eastern Europe and to Eastern Europe from Germany. This was also the path charted by Shmuel Yosef (Shai) Agnon (Czaczkes) in his creation myth of Buczacz, his and my mother’s hometown. In Agnon’s telling of it, his city was founded by a caravan of Jews, whose “pure hearts yearned to go to the Land of Israel” but who found themselves instead in a place of “endless forests, filled with birds and animals and beasts.” There they encountered a band of “great and important noblemen,” who were “so aston- ished by their wisdom and their well-spoken manner” that they invited the newcomers “to dwell with them.” Having “recognized that the Jews were their blessing,” the nobles assured them that “the whole land is wide open to you,” allowing them to “dwell where you wish,” not least because “there is no one in this land who knows how to trade goods.” And so the Jews stayed, having real- ized that they had meanwhile “struck roots into the land, and built houses, and the nobility of the land liked and supported them, and the women were preg- nant or with babies, and some had become exhausted and weak, and the elderly had aged a great deal and the journey would be hard for them.” There they had “lacked for nothing in learning of the Torah and the knowledge of God and were secure in their wealth and honor and their faith and righteousness.”2 Agnon himself, of course, did not come from Germany but was born in Buczacz; and he did not stay in Buczacz but rather went to live in Jaffa, then part of Ottoman Palestine, in 1908, as a twenty-one-year-old aspiring writer. Just four years later, however, he did go to Germany, staying there for twelve years that spanned World War I, his making as an author, the Balfour Declaration, and the beginning of the consolidation of a Jewish “national home” in what was, by the time he returned and settled down in Jerusalem, British Mandatory Pales- tine.3 I too did not personally cross these geographies in the chronological order suggested above but rather did so in following the foci of my research. Born just six years after the establishment of the State of Israel, I am the only native son of bash18296_book.indb 188 03/07/18 5:44 PM natiOnal narratives Of suffering and victimhOOd = 189 Kibbutz Ein Hachoresh in my family, although I have no recollections of my very early childhood there. My parents are now buried side by side in the kibbutz cemetery, an intimate place with many familiar names, what some people refer to as “a piece of old Eretz Israel.” Yet I am not the first “Sabra” in my family; my father, who subsequently insisted that he was not the “mythological Sabra,” was born in Petah Tikva (Mulabbis, Mlabbes, Um-Labbes) shortly after his parents arrived in Palestine from the poverty-stricken shtetl of Pyzdry, near the western Polish city of Kalisz. Upon his bar mitzvah in August 1939 my father received a greeting card from his grandfather; that was the last that anyone heard of the family there.4 But my mother came from Buczacz, Agnon’s town, in 1935, with her par- ents and two younger brothers. Years later, when he traveled to London after receiving the 1966 Nobel Prize in Literature, Agnon was hosted by my father, who was then cultural attaché to Her Majesty’s government. When my mother mentioned to him that she too came from Buczacz, he responded dismissively: “Nowadays everyone wants to be from Buczacz.” That was certainly not the case when my mother’s family also settled down in Petah Tikva, where she met my father. Both families were poor, and my father, whether because he wanted to escape his home or because he wanted to fight the Nazis, forged his birth certificate to make him appear two years older and joined the Jewish Brigade of the British Army. I doubt that he killed any Germans during his service in Italy, but he never forgot his encounter with the survivors of the Holocaust.5 By 1948, after one semester at the Hebrew University, both my parents were in uniform, my mother in besieged Jerusalem and my father in the convoys trying to break through. She suffered malnutrition and lost a child; he was twice pronounced dead, erroneously. They lost many friends in the students’ companies that had been scratched together when the fighting broke out. I have no doubt that in that war my father did kill others as the commander of a machine-gun squad; and I know that later in life he was haunted by the crimes he saw fellow soldiers commit, and he described a few such instances in his writing.6 I don’t think my mother killed anyone, but despite her small stature, she proudly carried a German Mauser, known in Israel as a Czechi, one of the German Army rifles that were shipped off to Israel from Czechoslovakia as part of an arms deal. I still used one for sniper training in 1973; a little swastika was engraved on its steel breech. My parents went back to the Hebrew University after the war, although they could no longer study at Mount Scopus since the Jordanian Legion had taken the eastern part of the city where the campus was located. When they com- pleted their studies they went to the kibbutz as part of what Israeli socialists called at the time hagshama, or “remaking,” intended to transform individuals bash18296_book.indb 189 03/07/18 5:44 PM 190 9 the hOlOcaust and the nakBa into active contributors to the social collective and to facilitate the creation of a just society. Some of the children they taught there at the school were orphaned Holocaust survivors. They lasted only five years in the kibbutz, but that time coincided with my birth. I spent the first eighteen months of my life in a chil- dren’s home; it was the rule in the kibbutz, although I do not think my mother liked this arrangement. At my father’s funeral in the kibbutz, in December 2016, an elderly woman approached me. “You may not remember me,” she said, “but I was your nanny when you were a baby.” She remembered me as being cute, of course, and gave me a photograph from that time to prove it. I went to Germany for the first time in 1979.